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PhotobucketHe heard the murmur like a distant buzz for what seemed an eternity; it had become background noise to his slumber.  She was imagining a unity with him, imagining he rose to her and gave her comfort and companionship in her empty hours. He slept, ignoring the irrelevant sounds, drifting, always drifting further... in the deepest of waters.

Silver jet streaming by a crescent moon in the bright fall air, his light and true love wondered if he ever heard her.  If in her gasp of pain he stirred at all.  Whether the beacon of her scream was enough to draw him together from his rest, coalesce with anger and lash at the shore with impotent rage.  

He whispered through the house they shared, wishing she could hear him, and that he had changed his mind about revenge being best served cold, tell her that the folly of all this human drama didn't matter.  That the "other" didn't matter.  She never held him alive, she certainly couldn't clutch her selfish hands tightly enough to grasp his elusive spirit.  Not to lend too much credence to any individual on this multi-faceted path.  Anger is a waste.  Even on me, babe.  I was just a part of the whole, don't you see?  No more dark, no more pain.  No one wins that way.  Its all so irrelevant to being.  Being alive or being in the all.

Maybe she could hear the music.  She always heard the music....

The little creatures
run in from the cold
Back to the nest
just like the days of old
There in the safety
of a mother's arms
The warmth of ages,
far away from harm again.

No one wins
It's a war of man,
No one wins
It's a war of man.

Don't be lonely.  Don't be lonely.  Its just stuff.  It looks good.  I'm proud of you.  Can't you see me in our son's eyes?  He can see me in yours.  You don't exist outside me.  No one exists outside anyone else really.  Your pain is her pain, her scoffing laugh doesn't hide it at all if you listen right.  Its a waste of time.

She stared at the screen as the next tune popped into the queue in the endless jukebox of her mind.

And there's so much time to make up
Everywhere you turn
Time we have wasted on the way

So much water moving
Underneath the bridge
Let the water come and carry us away

Sorting the music had been a bitch.  There was now a fine layer of dust on everything in her house, the house that had been gleaming only a day ago.  There were so many moments, wolf hair intertwined in albums long forgotten, pieces of pets long gone.  She didn't know whether to laugh or cry about that.  Throwing out the last tangible pieces of them, ouch... its dog hair, for chrissakes, and man do I suck at housecleaning apparently.

She made the offering of jazz albums to his best friend, certain that would appease his poltergeist from throwing shit at her in the house.  Heh.  Oh, now that was funny, long a point of bloodless contention between them.  A family joke.

Its just stuff, and she always felt the need for less stuff.  She had no idea why.  Stuff made her nervous. She looked across the room, and decided to move the guitars a few inches to the left.  There -  that was more balanced.  The order pleased her aesthetic sense.

That's what its about he whispered. Not the beauty per se, the act of creating it. The lifting of your arm, the turning of your wrist, the careful way you bend your body to move it.  Don't you see?  Be in one moment, you are in all moments.  Get it?

What good a prison of even prettily arranged things?  The phone doesn't ring.  She knew she wasn't as alone as she felt.  She connected with people through this little box off and on all day.  We helped one another, made one another feel better.  Although, perhaps she had been too needy lately, sucking too much energy in her wallowing of feelings.  People usually drink to stop the pain; last night she drank to feel it.  To release the demon that had been bubbling just under her veneer for weeks now, crippling her ability to function.

Life is hard work.  She sometimes envied his freedom for all that - remembering her parents long ago arguing "No, I wanna die first, leave YOU with this mess!"  It seemed a cruel argument for them to have when she was little.  She got it now.  At least he would have had an income and been able to provide for the boy.  But would he have been able to do all the little things to keep the home going, keep the child whole?

Christ - the boat is still in the water at the neighbors.  So much to keep track of.  The house insurance is surely due. Lunch money, bills, fall clean up.  The light switch in the bathroom that won't go off.  Man, that could cause a fire, and its been weeks.  Fear of electricity should not trump fear of fire.  Do it already.  

She felt lighter.  Like the crying and honesty helped take a veil from her eyes.  She knew it was her own dialogue she was imagining with him, her own mind sorting and boxing and purging the trappings.  Shaking the dust out, just like the house, so it can be wiped cleaner.

The world isn't getting any better, she was glad he wasn't here to see that.  It was harder and harder to fight.  Yet without politics, who was she?  Yeah, she could imagine his scold, "Its who you are, who we are, we fight for a better world...."

The softness of a dog's fur only matters to the dog while you're petting it. The act of love.  Dig?  Take your power back, baby.  So much has been written about the yin/yang, dark and light and its all a lie.  There is only light.  Be in it with me. Love, laugh, live.  The color of that leaf. The sound of our boys voice.  The sunlight on the water. She never got it, only glimpsed it and it scared her.  You get it. People who enjoy ugliness get ugly lives.  Its not punishment, there is no punishment.  Its creation.  You create reality. The ugly is background noise.  You're making light, every day.  I'm proud of you.

She ran her fingers through her hair.  Man, she missed her hair being played with, soothing her to sleep, shutting down the internal dialogue. She wondered if anyone would ever again have the ability to both rile her up to no end, yet soothe her so completely.  The plants need water again, and the fish tank is low on water.  She tried to convince herself even drudgery can be an act of beauty if done with intent.  She waited, staring out the window, waiting for the next lyric.

Broken hearts and dirty windows
make life difficult to see
thats why last night and this morning
always look the same to me

Ha!  That was no help.

Wait.  There it is.

I've been talking to my angel
and he says that its alright...

He swirled and ebbed with the water.  It was so peaceful here.  He sparkled in the morning frost for her eyes only. No one owns me, now, no one ever did.  Like every life ever lived.  We are everything and nothing.  I'm glad I shared it with you.  Keep sharing it. Sparkle in the light my love. Be love, and thus be free.

He rested again.  And she began her dance in the light again.

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